


Empty Rooms, Empty Sighs

by interrobangme



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Basically Erik leaving breadcrumbs for his boothang to cling to when he's gone, M/M, Oneshot for now, Pining!Charles, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interrobangme/pseuds/interrobangme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a question at the kinkmeme: Erik leaves his helmet behind at the end of DOFP. Why? http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/11912.html?thread=22772104#t22772104. A oneshot for now, but I'm considering continuing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Rooms, Empty Sighs

Erik fled from the makeshift stadium faster than he'd intended. At least, that's what he tells himself every morning when he reaches for the hotel nightstand and finds only air where cold, protective metal should be. 

In a tiny bright patch in the back of his mind, however, he knew exactly what he was doing. As he flew from the wrath of the government, from the media, from Charles and back into the unknown, Erik felt the familiar hum of his beloved helmet and left it behind. 

As he sensed the distance between himself and the helmet and the ugly mess surrounding it grow, Erik spared a thought for all the things he'd left the last time he needed to leave Charles' side. The small stack of books on the bedside table in the mansion, shamelessly pilfered from the library. A bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter that he'd just filled with farmer's market produce the day before. And the clothing in the dresser in his room. Slacks, jackets, shirts, his softest turtleneck sweater.

Not for the first time, Erik wondered if Charles ever entered his old room out of morbid curiosity. He wondered if Charles put those books back in their proper places or if he hurled them across the room in a fit of rage. Erik's eyes slid shut as he imagined--as he hoped--Charles found Erik's favorite sweater hanging out of the top drawer and caressed it, allowing himself to be seduced into sentimentality by fingering the plush fabric. And then, Erik daydreamed, Charles would clutch the old sweater in his arms, inhaling whatever remained of Erik's scent in the cloth, and sighing longingly.

No, Erik thought as the stadium shrunk into nothingness behind him. This wasn't the first possession he'd sacrificed in the hopes that Charles might keep it, and it wouldn't be the last.

***

After they’d found his wheelchair half-crushed under cement and metal, after the agonizingly long flight back to Westchester, after the rest of the house had gone to bed, Charles reached into his duffle bag and unwrapped his new memento. 

The helmet felt cold and unforgiving in his hands. Like Erik, he supposed. He wheeled himself into the darkened hallway, listening for any sounds, unwilling to fully rely on his powers just yet. When he felt satisfied that the coast was clear, he continued down the hall and opened the door to Erik’s old room. 

Even after the rest of the house fell prey to his fits of fury against all that reminded him of his naïve, hopeful past, Erik’s room remained untouched. Charles didn’t even need to turn on the light to see where he was going, choosing instead to find his way by memory to the top drawer of Erik’s old dresser. 

By the moonlight pouring in from the window, Charles took Erik’s well-worn sweater and wound it around the helmet. He allowed himself one quick stroke of the black fabric, rubbing a long sleeve against his cheek before thrusting it and its new cargo into the back of the drawer. He closed it gently and paused to take in the silence of the room. On days when he truly couldn’t stand the loneliness anymore, he’d come in here, close his eyes, and try to feel Erik’s presence. Inevitably he’d fail and wind up worse off than before. But that never stopped him. 

He wheeled into the hallway and, as he pulled the heavy wooden door shut behind him, pleaded with a god he didn’t believe in that the helmet’s owner would return for it soon.


End file.
